The Game is Afoot
by WibbleyWobbleyTimeyWhimey
Summary: Sherlock had gone out for less than an hour, and John had managed to get himself kidnapped. Well, at least Sherlock wasn't bored anymore. Pre-Reichenbach. No slash.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: this is my first Sherlock story :) It's pre-Reichenbach. It won't be slash, just friendship. There will be action, adventure, and some John whump (poor John). I'm probably going to borrow some elements from the Sherlock Holmes books later on. Please read and review :)

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, unfortunately. BBC does. The books don't belong to me, either.

...

"John." John ignored Sherlock, continuing to type. "John. John. John. John. Doctor Watson. John."

"What?" John shouted, exasperated, turning around to face the detective. Sherlock was upside down on the sofa, legs splayed above him and his head touching the ground.

"I'm bored."

"I know what would entertain you. How about, for once in your life, you go get the groceries."

"Boring."

"Yeah? Well I think it's boring, too," John replied, sighing and standing up.

"You can't leave me here alone!" Sherlock said sharply. "I'm bored. So bored. I need something. I need something now."

"Yeah? Well, I do too. Milk."

In a flash, Sherlock was on his feet. "Give me that," he said, snatching the grocery list from out of John's hands. "I'll do it. It will give me something to amuse my brain in the middle of the dark, boring wasteland that is my life."

"Very poetic," said John, seating himself at his computer again. "That's a line worthy of my blog."

"Don't you dare," snapped Sherlock, putting on his coat and grabbing his scarf. "Remember, I could kill you in a thousand different ways and make it look like a tragic accident."

"'Course you could," John replied as Sherlock slammed the door.

Sherlock set off towards the supermarket at a brisk pace. His mind was eating away every problem it could get at, trying to staunch the sharp hunger of boredom. _Another blog-worthy line_, a voice chimed in his head, sounding a lot like John. _Oh, shut up._

That woman, across the street. Approximately 20 years of age. Quite pretty, but disheveled. It seemed that her boyfriend- no, fiancé- had recently cut it off, judging by her puffy red eyes and the ring she was fondling between her fingers.

That man down the road was off to a job interview. He was dressed rather nicely, but had to keep wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers as he walked.

Children's puzzles. He needed something good. Something interesting. Something that could appease his starving brain.

"Why is everything so dull?" he said aloud. Next to him, a mother eyed him warily.

"What do you want?" he snapped. She took her small son by the arm and left with a last withering look over her shoulder.

He had a text. John. He'd forgotten the milk, which was what he'd be texting him about, surely. He pocketed his phone without opening the text.

Sherlock trotted back towards the supermarket, grabbed the milk, and paid an extremely bored-looking cashier.

_She doesn't know what boredom is_, Sherlock thought as he turned down Baker Street. _No one knows what boredom is_.

He entered his flat gloomily. "I got the milk, John," he said, walking into the kitchen and making room for it among the various body parts in the refrigerator.

There was no reply. "John?" Sherlock took his phone from his pocket and opened John's text.

**Things will get a tad more interesting**, it said.

"John?" Still no answer. Sherlock searched the entire flat. No John. His phone buzzed again. It was from John.

**Game on, Mr. Holmes**.

...

A/N: please review!


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: This chapter is a little longer. Please review :)

Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to BBC, not to me :(

...

John rolled his eyes as Sherlock slammed the door behind him. Honestly, the man was such a drama queen.

"What are you writing, Doctor Watson?"

With catlike reflexes, John sprang from his chair and whipped around. Behind him stood a short, wiry sort of man with messy brown hair and dark brown eyes.

"What in the name of-"

"Now, now, Doctor. We'll have plenty of time to chat later. Right now, I need you to do me a favor."

"Why would I do you a favor? Who are you? How did you even get in here?" John felt for his pistol in his back pocket.

"So many questions and so little time," sighed the man. "Oh, don't bother with your gun. It isn't loaded."

John gritted his teeth. Was he bluffing? Well, he'd just have to find out. John whipped out his pistol, pointed it at the man, and pulled the trigger. He was rewarded with an empty clicking noise.

Then the man pulled a pistol on John. "You see, my gun _is_ loaded. I'd be really careful about your next actions, Doctor, or you're going to have a bullet hole in your other leg."

John felt someone behind him grab him. There are two of them, he thought as a rag was pressed up to his face. Chloroform. John felt his world fade to black.

"Put him in the van," said the small man to his large, muscular accomplice. Once they had gone, the man picked up John's phone from where he had left it on his desk.

"I'll give Shirley a heads-up," he said to the empty flat, quickly typing a message to the famous Sherlock Holmes.

...

**Things will get a tad more interesting.**

**Game on, Mr. Holmes.**

**Who are you? -SH**

**If I told you, there'd be no fun in the game.**

**I've never much liked games, anyway. It's too easy to win them. -SH**

**Well, that's when you go up against someone of mediocre intelligence.**

**So you aren't of mediocre intelligence? -SH**

**No.**

**Oh, I think you are. -SH**

**Why do you say that, Mr. Holmes?**

**Because you've brought John into whatever this is. And that is the one thing that will ensure your downfall. -SH**

**I'll tell your faithful dog you said that, when he wakes up. I have taken your knight. It's your move.**

...

John woke up with a throbbing headache. He tried to move his hands up to his face, but he found that they were tied behind his back. That couldn't be good.

Slowly, John cracked a single eye open. The man who had been in his flat was standing over him, smiling and holding his phone. John's phone.

"What are you doing with that?" John spat, opening his other eye and trying his best to glare menacingly. He was in a darkened room with no windows, seated on a metal chair, a fluorescent lightbulb dangling over his head.

The man laughed. "Just talking to your friend Shirley. He's not very happy with me, I'm afraid."

"No. Neither am I," John groaned. "What do you want with me?"

"I'd forgotten," said the man, ignoring John's question, "that we hadn't been properly introduced." He extended his hand, and then, seeming to remember that John's hands were tied, withdrew it. "I'm Doctor Marcus Smith. I'm not a medical doctor, as you are. I'm a doctor of psychology, and I find your friend's mind simply _fascinating_."

"Don't we all," John muttered, working furiously at the ties binding his hands.

"What I find most fascinating," continued Dr. Smith, "is Mr. Holmes' friendship with you."

That distracted John. "With me?"

"Yes. Sherlock Holmes is infamous for his lack of emotions and his lack of friends. He put up a barrier between himself and the rest of the world before you came along. Then, suddenly, a damaged army doctor comes along, and he starts acting more human. I want to see what happens when the one healthy relationship he has disappears."

"You're the one who needs a psychologist, mate," mumbled John. Dr. Smith's fist connected with his jaw, and John saw stars.

"Maybe so," said the man, regaining his composure instantly, "but at least I'm not best friends with a sociopath." Dr. Smith turned on his heel and left the room, leaving John with a pounding head and a throbbing jaw.

...

**A/N: Please review :)**


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: please R&R :)

Disclaimer: I still own nothing. :(

...

Sherlock stared in cold fury at his mobile. Who did this man think he was? He was seething with anger, something Sherlock Holmes almost never did.

With a steady hand, he dialed John's number. One ring. Heartbeat. Two rings. Heartbeat. Three rings.

"Sherlock?"

"John," Sherlock sighed in relief. At least he was alive.

"Sherlock! Listen, I don't have much time..."

"Where are you? Who did this?"

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I can't tell you that. All I can tell you is that I'm alive, but..." John's voice cracked, and Sherlock's brow furrowed.

"But what?" the detective said sharply. "Speak up, Dr. Watson."

"But my captor says that I won't be for much longer. He'll keep in touch."

There was a click, then silence. "John? John! Damn!" Sherlock dialed his number again in vain. He was unsurprised when all he got was John's voicemail.

"Sherlock, dearie, I brought you some tea." It was Mrs. Hudson.

"Quiet!" Sherlock growled, closing his eyes and pressing his fingers to his temples. "I need quiet. Can't you see that I need quiet, woman?"

"Whatever you say, dearie," said Mrs. Hudson, and their was a clink as a teacup was placed on a saucer. "Where's the doctor?"

"He had to run in to the office," Sherlock lied. "Now leave. I must go to my mind palace."

"Alright, Sherlock," and the woman left with a pat on Sherlock's back.

The detective brought his conversation with John to the front of his mind. _Sherlock...Sherlock... Listen, I don't have much time... I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I can't tell you that..._ Sherlock refused to acknowledge John's last statement. He'd live. There was something else, something important, some other sound other than the one of John's voice.

"Yes," he said to himself aloud. "Clever, John. So very clever. I didn't know you had it in you."

Besides John's voice, Sherlock had heard a series of taps. Morse code. D-O-C-T-O-R-M-A-R-C-U-S-S-M-I-T-H. John had given him a name.

...


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Sorry this took so long... It's pretty short.

...

"When Sherlock calls," said Smith, entering the room where John sat, "you are to tell him nothing, except that you will not be alive for much longer.

John tried to glare at him, despite his swollen black eye and pounding heart.

The phone rang. Smith drew a knife, slicing through the ropes binding John's hands. Holding a pistol to John's head, Smith nodded towards the phone.

John's heart felt like it was about to beat out of his chest as he lifted his mobile to his ear.

"Sherlock?" He had to think of something. If he said Smith's name, he would die. If he didn't do something, he would die anyway. He had to somehow alert Sherlock to his situation. But of course. John began to tap out a message on the back of the phone, praying that Smith couldn't understand Morse.

"...I won't be for much longer," John finished, and the phone was snatched out of his grasp.

Almost immediately, the butt of the gun came round and hit the back of John's head. He cried out as stars appeared in front of his eyes.

"You take me for a fool, Dr. Watson," said Smith, once again regaining his composure. "You think I can't recognize Morse code. It's quite alright, however. I'm not angry."

"Then why'd you try'n bash m' skull in?" John slurred, head pounding.

"Because you thought yourself more clever than I. No, Doctor, you don't seem to understand. I actually would like to thank you for revealing my name. You see, John, I want Sherlock to find you."

"Why's th't?" John felt like curling up in a ball and sleeping for the rest of his life.

"Well, once he arrives, I can commence my experiment.

"You're... Mad.." John sighed. His eyelids felt extremely heavy.

"Oh well," Smith said as he turned to go. "Try not to sleep on that concussion." And with that, Smith slammed the door, plunging John's room into darkness.

...

**A/N: Please Review :) merry Christmas, guys, and I'll try not to keep you waiting so long for the next chapter.**


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Next chapter! Yay!

...

John's phone began to vibrate on the small table beside him. He turned his head slightly, wincing as he did so. Sherlock's name was on the caller ID.

Smith wasn't in the room. He'd obviously left John's phone within reach for some reason... What was he playing at? Suddenly, John realized that he didn't care.

He scooted his chair over to the table, leaned his face towards the vibrating phone, and accepted the call with some difficulty, using his nose.

"Sh'lock?" he whispered hesitantly, leaning forward to listen into the phone.

"John? Speak more clearly, would you? My name has an 'e' in it."

John rolled his eyes, then realized that Sherlock couldn't see him. "'M rolling m' eyes, Sh'lock."

"Do you have a concussion?"

"You're so v'ry cl'ver. How'd you figure it out?"

"Stop trying to be witty, John. It doesn't suit you."

"Yeah? Well, n'ther does being hit 'round th' head w' a pistol."

"John, can you give me your location?" Sherlock sounded legitimately worried now.

"Would if I could. B't don't come 'n find me."

Sherlock actually let out a genuine laugh. "Really, John, I'd started to think you were a bit smarter. You think I'm going to leave you with a concussion at the hands of a maniac?"

John sighed. "Sm'th wants you t' come. When you come, he's g'nna kill me, 'nd pro'ly you, too."

Sherlock was silent for a beat. "That's idiotic. And a bit insane. Ooh, this is interesting indeed."

"Sh'lock, concentrate. I c'n get m'self out."

"No, you can't, or else you'd have done so already. Don't be so ridiculously stupid, John; it's quite tiresome."

"I have h'lf a mind to hang up on you."

"Doctor Watson." John froze. Smith walked around John, picking up the phone as he reached the table. "Hello, Mr. Holmes. It sounds like you need more motivation to come and get your friend."

...

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat when he heard the chilling voice of Marcus Smith replace the warm, friendly one of John Watson.

"It sounds like you need more motivation to come and get your friend. I can tell you that the address is really not so far from your little home on Baker Street. Twenty, left, forty, right, one, two, three, four on the left."

"I'll be there in an hour."

"Without your mate Lestrade?"

"Without him or his men."

Sherlock heard the report of a pistol and a cry of pain.

"Time is ticking, Shirley."

"No, no, NO, NO, NO! WHAT DID YOU DO?"

"See you in an hour.

...

A/N: please, please review!


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: I am SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SORRY! I have no excuse for not updating in so long, except that play rehearsals for my school play have started, and I've been practicing nearly every night. But I'm so sorry, and I hope that this chapter makes up for the wait.

...

_Twenty, left, forty, right, one, two, three, four on the left. What does it mean? Well, he's certainly giving me instructions. He wants me to find John. Why? Not important. John's been shot. Cry of pain was sharp, not too sharp, though. Indicates that gunshot wound is not life threatening, but John is most likely in a great deal of pain. Twenty, left, forty, right, one, two, three, four on the left. Twenty yards to the right of 221B, turn left, forty more yards, turn right, fourth building on the left. The old mental hospital. Should have known. No time to lose. _

He sent Lestrade a quick text (he was not an idiot, after all. He needed some men, but they'd have to wait for his signal before they interfered).

Sherlock grabbed his coat and strode to the door. Why did Smith want him to find John? Well, he was clearly mentally unstable. Perhaps he was done with his little game. No, that wasn't plausible.

Sherlock saw the building as he rounded a corner, and he sped up.

Perhaps he wanted to kill Sherlock. Ah, well John's life was hanging in the balance. Sherlock couldn't afford to hesitate.

He raised his hand to the wooden door, which was peeling red paint, and turned the door knob. It was unlocked. Sherlock tentatively stepped inside, looking around, observing.

There was a single, dimly-lit hallway, leading to a single red door. Sherlock slowly walked towards it, but as he did so, the door swung open.

John stood right before him, eyes glazed, clutching his shoulder and swaying slightly.

"John," Sherlock said, reaching out for his friend. As he did so, there was a huge BANG, and John crumpled.

"JOHN!" Sherlock shouted, lunging for his friend. There were two wounds now, both bleeding profusely. One was on his shoulder, the other on the back of his thigh._ Oh God, oh God, John, you're the doctor... Calm yourself, Sherlock... Panic is a major disadvantage..._

"Damn. I'm a terrible shot." Sherlock's head snapped up. Marcus was standing over the men, sneering. "Apparently the sociopath does have a heart," he mused.

Sherlock didn't remember knocking the gun out of Smith's hand, didn't remember tackling him to the ground, didn't remember punching him in a blind fury that Sherlock had never experienced before.

He did remember Lestrade pulling him off of Smith, remembered John being loaded onto a stretcher, and Donovan cuffing the unconscious Smith, who was covered in lumps and bruises.

"Give me a car," Sherlock growled at Lestrade as the ambulance pulled away.

"Sherlock-"

"Fine. I'll walk."

"Sherlock, I was going to say that I'll drive you. He's my friend, too."

Sherlock nodded, nearly sprinting to Lestrade's car. Every second they wasted here was another second that Sherlock wasn't there for John.

And Sherlock wasn't sure how much time John had left.

...

**A/N: I will try to not leave you guys hanging for so long like I did last time. Please review :)**


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